THIRTY-FIVE

The biggest group of observers stood clustered together in the grass in front of the nursing home. A huge sign was posted on the lawn near the intersection: “Save Our Farm. Build a Healthier Community.”

Others stood around in the street, a safe distance from the action. These people didn’t seem sad. They were mostly just gawkers or opportunists with their own agendas. Some filmed the events on their phones. Some held smaller signs, all for their own personal causes.

“End corporate welfare!”

“End all War”

“Separate Church and State”

“Bring back Freaks and Geeks.”

“I have that show on DVD,” Abe said. He waved to a couple of kids. One was from the school newspaper. Last year, he’d begged me to do an interview. “The saddest part is, nobody else cares.”

I had to agree. In terms of demonstrations, it was a pretty pitiful event.

Even from far away, I could see Miriam and Samantha standing with the group on the grass. She was wearing jeans with a short-sleeved pink sweater—a piece I’d begged her to buy. Most of the others were sitting on the grass. “Should we go over there?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t,” Abe said.

I didn’t want to upset Miriam, but I needed to talk to her. I yelled, “Miriam!” I waved my arms over my head. It’s not that I thought she’d be happy to see me. I just wanted her to know I was here.

That couldn’t be wrong.

But maybe it was, because when she looked at me waving my arms and screaming her name, she didn’t wave. In fact, she turned around and hugged Samantha.

“That wasn’t nice.”

Abe wasn’t all that sympathetic. “Just give it a rest.”

He didn’t have to remind me: True forgiveness took a long time. I knew I had to be patient and humble—those were just two things I clearly wasn’t.

Especially when Samantha was involved.

As the workers systematically removed branch after branch, Samantha walked over. “Not satisfied with the coverage you’ve been getting? Do you really need to make a scene here, too?” She yelled at the kid with the camera. “Hey you. Janine Collins is here. In costume. Film her.”

She had such a big mouth. A bunch of people put down their signs, turned, and walked toward me. They looked a little bit like sheep. Or zombies.

It was just what she wanted. An audience.

She grabbed the hem of my skirt. “Wow. This is impressive. What’s it supposed to be?” A few people laughed. Others left Miriam’s circle to see what was happening. “Joan of Arc or a Thanksgiving Day float? Is this what you were making when you said you would help us save our farm?”

There were so many things I could say, but they wouldn’t accomplish anything. I wanted to stand with Miriam. I wanted to console her when the tree finally came down.

“This is your fault,” she barreled on. (Her staccato pronunciation was very effective over the noise.) “If you had helped us, this might not be happening.” She looked at the crowd around us and said, “For those of you who don’t know her, this is Janine Collins, the famous Soul Survivor. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She said she was going to help us, but she never did.”

The crowd grew bigger. Closer. Angrier.

I wanted to run, get out of here—I wasn’t helping Miriam. I didn’t want to fight with Samantha. I wanted to go home. “I’m sorry about your tree,” I said, looking for a way out.

She didn’t. She swiped at my dress and balled some of the hands up in her fist. She pulled so hard a couple of them tore off. “People like you … you’re so disgusting. You always have to be the star.”

“That’s not true. I’d give anything to be anonymous.”

She laughed. “Then why are you here? In that?” I heard more laughter. Saw a few mean-spirited gestures. She tore off another hand and stomped on it like it was a cigarette butt.

Abe finally spoke up. “Samantha, that’s not fair.” Which was not an effective statement. None of this was fair.

But I got it—they had to blame someone. And that someone was going to be me.

Before I could walk away, something cold and wet hit my back and dripped down the skirt. I was afraid to look. Abe said, “I think you should get out of here.”

Samantha added, “I guess you underestimated how many people care about this place.”

This was weirder than my wooden hands dream. I accepted that I was a bad friend. I didn’t blame Miriam for not coming over here to hear my apology. But how many of these people cared about this farm? How many of them were just here because the cameras were, because the story was, because there was nothing else to do? I was not the only villain.

From off to one side, someone hurled dirt at my dress. Then some leaves that had grown wet and cold sitting in the gutter. From the back of the group, Dan stepped forward. He was wearing my favorite shirt—a pink button-down. Guys think pink is a girly color, but pretty much universally it does great things for their eyes. I wondered if he was going to help me out, but he stood back. He said, “Don’t expect anyone here to feel sorry for you.”

Now I was scared.

I looked around for a friendly face. For sympathy. For help.

Emma would tell me that she experienced faith when times were at their worst. She would tell me that it wasn’t always important to be the one in front of the camera, that sometimes the person behind the curtain could get her way, too. If she were here, I knew she’d tell me that God showed Himself to her when she needed Him most.

Well, I needed help now.

Maybe she had something, because just when I was sure they were going to pelt me with dirt, the crew fired up the chainsaws even louder. Everyone turned around to watch. This was the moment they had dreaded. They stood still as stone, and watched the men take the tree’s remaining limbs.

A few people cried.

Miriam stayed as far away from me as possible.

When the great arm of the tree hit the ground, smaller branches scattered. It was like that old story, The Giving Tree. Tons of people sent that book to me when I was in the hospital, which sort of shocked me. It might have been a famous book, but it was also pretty morbid.

In the book, the kid basically killed the tree. First he took the branches and the shade. Then he took the trunk. When the tree was no more than a stump, the boy came back as an old man and took the only thing the tree had left to give—a seat. The first time Dave read it to me, I thought the old man was scary. Lo called it a representation of a vicious one-sided relationship, disguised as a book.

I would bet that Miriam thought I was that boy, but that wasn’t who I wanted to be. I wanted to be like Emma: humble. I knew that was the only way to make things better was to help my friend.

I tried to convince her how sorry I was. “I wish you could have saved it.”

No reply.

“I didn’t want to desert you. Can we go somewhere and talk?” I took her hand. “I know I’ve been selfish. I never meant to treat you this way. I had a lot on my mind. Can you just let me explain?”

Unlike Miriam, Samantha was no good at the silent treatment. “Let me guess. Your problems are bigger than ours?” She told me that Miriam wanted nothing to do with me. “Go find your followers, your believers. Let them take care of you for a while.”

When I started to walk away, Miriam finally stepped away from Samantha, but it wasn’t to apologize. “You know, some girl was here. She seemed sort of desperate to find you—she said that something terrible had happened. I told her not to care so much, that you disappoint people all the time.”

Emma.

“Will you come with me?” I asked. “We can go to Dave’s. You need to meet her and hear what she has to say. And then we can talk. You can let me apologize.”

She turned back. Now the tree was just one tall trunk. The crew helped one of the men stand up close to the highest third of the trunk. From here, it looked like he was hugging the tree. The men on the ground told us that the trunk was too big to take in one piece. They had to dissect it.

Miriam said, “It won’t be long now.”

Moments later, the worker turned on his chainsaw and began to remove the top of the trunk. Miriam looked at me like it was all my fault. “You don’t get it, do you?” she shouted over the noise. “I needed you. I needed your help. I needed you to be there for me the way I’ve been there for you.”

I could have said, “I didn’t mean to blow you off” or “I feel really bad about the tree” or “I’d do everything differently, if I could,” but none of that would be true.

We both knew that.

I waited for the crew to dismantle the top third of the trunk. “I was selfish,” I said. “I know it. But I want to make it up to you. I want to rebuild the tripod. Come with me. I think you’ll really like Emma.”

“No.” The crew lowered the man to the next section of the trunk. At the same time, farther away, others loaded pieces of branch and trunk into a machine that turned everything to mulch.